


For America

by rispacooper



Category: Captain America, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: 1940s, Bisexual Steve Rogers, Bisexuality, Comment Fic, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Identity, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2012-11-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 02:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Um..  Smut Monday commentfic which started with the semi-joking comment that I should make Cap jerk off for America. Steve fantasizes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For America

**Author's Note:**

> Because he isn't a prude and porn existed back then and Steve is a normal, healthy guy (healthier than most even). Also because there really should be more mental imagery of Chris Evans with water running down his naked body.

There’s a damp strip of paper pinned to the plank of wood that serves as the back wall to the showers. It’s the only wall that isn’t cloth, but it’s sturdy enough to hold both the pin and pinup that someone has left there lend his fellow soldiers a hand, boost their morale, as Bucky might say with a leer.

The pinup is tame compared to some that Steve’s seen in similar showers across Europe, a dishy brunette sitting on her knees with her arms behind her head, she’s got a welcoming smile and lips redder than any he’s ever seen except Peggy’s and that smile is about all she’s got on. His gaze traces over her form once as he steps into the space and then he shuts his eyes and ducks his head—and most of his body—under the lukewarm spray of water.

She’s still there behind his eyelids, every line of her already committed to memory like every spark in Peggy’s eyes he’d ever seen, the dark line of paint along her lashes, the dimple at her left cheek, her high, small breasts and pink nipples.

He bites back the sound he wants to make and keeps his eyes closed. The water soaks into his hair and then falls down his back over the rest of him. It’s not hot and it’s not cold, but he shivers as his body adjusts to it, and then he reaches down.

There’s soap, a luxury for many, though not for someone in the newsreels, and some other lucky bastard is in the space next to him, moaning. Could be Grable in his shower, could be some other woman with parted lips and her hands over her lap. Steve flushes all over, hot now just from hearing the sounds the guy is making, like he either has no shame or can’t help himself. Steve wants to ask what the guy’s imagining, not that he would.

The guy isn’t supposed to be there, and Steve frowns and focuses, tries to focus, on the sudden swirl of images in his mind. Some pinup. Peggy. Legs and exposed throat and red, red mouth, like candy. He wants to kiss her mouth, her legs too, if she’d let him, and the thought is like a spark, right down through the center of him.

He bites his lip and wonders if he could open his eyes, if he ever got to touch Peggy. He knows Bucky does, leaves his eyes open, knows most men do, or pretend to, when they are telling stories about women, and he thinks of those stories too, and his hands moving up Peggy’s legs, slowly, inching her skirt up past her knees.

It heats him in ways the water never could, and he puts a hand down to his balls, not quite touching the rest of him yet, not with the slapping sounds coming from next door not entirely muffled. It’s intimate, he knows that from times before, it makes him finish fast and burn under his skin for days when he knows another man is pleasuring himself next to him, when the sounds are the same, or louder, when they finish together. It doesn’t matter what he tries to think of then, whatever got him hard isn’t what helped him through it.

But his heart is racing from the thoughts of Peggy and even with guilt making him shift closer to the plank that serves as his wall, he doesn’t stop his hand from tugging at the hot weight of his balls. It makes something spike through him, the way it always does.

Someday, he thinks as he holds back a gasp and keeps his head down, someday he is going to do that for as long as he can stand it. Someday he is going to do the things on the French postcards, the things that made him blush and tense.

It would be dangerous to think of those with his mouth open, but he doesn’t have much time here, so he parts his lips and thinks of pinups and Peggy and what it might feel like, to have a breast in his mouth. Then he moves his wet hand to his dick.

He touches, just touches, for second as it swells, thinking of the taste of skin, if Peggy would want to taste his, if he could kiss her while he puts his hand between her legs, and then a whimper slips out.

It’s nothing to the guy next to him, doing things in his mind that would probably put even French postcards to shame, but Steve is conscious of it, the small release of it. He squeezes his dick, close to his body, and then makes the sound again, just in time to the slap of skin next to him.

His hips push forward, just a little. 

Steve thinks that whimpering isn’t something Captain America should do, but there’s a lot of things that he’s supposed to do or not when in the public eye, and he really doesn’t mind those things because he understands the need. But this isn’t public, this is just Steve, and his hand, and pictures springing up in his mind like sketches he could draw if he wanted.

Red nails. He likes the way they made a girl’s hand look, how it reminds him of grace and strength, how it makes him think of movie stars, and sometimes what red-tipped hands might look like on him.

Mouths. He likes all the color of them, natural, painted, wants to taste the paint though he already knows he won’t like it because Bucky had said so. Bucky had a pink mouth, almost always grinning at him, like he knew without asking why Steve needed to know these things.

Knees. Legs. Like dancers. Like Rockettes and Grable and Peggy, lines drawn down the back, over the curve of a calf, because there weren’t nylons or silk to spare. Legs hidden by khaki skirts. Wrists, strong, barely visible. The line of a neck, curls damp with sweat.

His mouth on all those things, careful, gentle. His hands, too big now, maybe, or just what all the chorus girls said and just the right size. Big enough slide over bare skin and pull someone closer, close enough to make their skirt ride up.

Steve’s eyelids flutter but he keeps his eyes shut as his slides his fist up and down the length of his dick. There isn’t much time, he reminds himself, he still has to soap up, go out, talk to a reporter. But tonight they head out, maybe someplace with no shower, just the Commandos and dark nights and not-quite muffled sounds from the bodies lying next to him.

Sounds. The thought sneaks in, another spark that takes him off guard and makes him gasp. He knows the other guy heard it this time, because there’s a pause in the wet, stinging sound of self-pleasure, and Steve flushes all over again. That’s all he needs. It burns more, sometimes, to know the other men don’t expect him to do this, not Captain America, though not as much as it burns when they won’t look at him, after.

But not now. Now the faceless guy who doesn’t tower over everything the way Steve does starts again, and the fact that it’s slower, that he has to know who Steve is and what he’s doing, startles Steve into opening his eyes.

There’s the pinup, thick, lacy undergarments hiding part of her from him, her eyes daring to him to try to look anyway. She’s pretty. A brunette. Close enough to make him think of Peggy if it weren’t for the guy next to him, grunting quietly, thinking… thinking about Steve doing this inches away from him.

They aren’t kids. It’s the first clear thought Steve has before his mind starts drawing more pictures, hands, hands without any polish at all, moving up and down over a dick. It’s not his, though it’s hot and hard and flushed. For second, while he struggles to catch up with where his mind has raced ahead, he wishes it was his, but that wasn’t something he’d done even when he’d been a kid, even if he wasn’t blind to where it did happen now.

It’s confusing, just like how his hand hasn’t stopped, so he braces his legs and looks down. There’s water splashing at his feet and dirt between his toes that’s washed clean of his thighs. For a few months those thighs had seemed like someone else’s, a stranger’s, but Steve can feel everything when he touches them, how strong they are, how firm the muscle is. 

Two hands. He’s all out of blushes but he would if he could. Instead he closes his mouth and swallows warm water and stares at the half-naked pinup in front of him. His heart is pumping hard, like his hand now, even when his other hand moves gentle across his legs, careful between them.

He’s out of his mind, a scrawny kid again who never did know what was best for him, but who never could stop himself. There was no point in stopping, no vague lectures from the Father or reels the War Department had made him watch had ever said anything about this that had made any sense to him. Poets wrote about things like this, and good men did things like this. Good men who deserved more than their own hand before they died.

Wet, gasping sounds and chafing flesh aren’t anything that God intended him to feel shame about. It’s a small kindness if anything. Men are going to die. Could die. Could end up unable to even do this ever again. Men a hell of lot braver than Steve because they could get hurt in ways he couldn’t. Beautiful men.

“Oh.” It escapes him. It’s rough and it’s loud. Steve’s body is warm, tingling, but getting hotter, like he’s under a thousand Vita-Rays and he should shut his eyes but he can’t.

Sounds. He adds his own, muffled when he can’t help but bite his lip. His arm aches a little with the force of what he’s doing, the muscles are shaking. Steve appreciates muscles, the curve of them, their force and purpose and strength, whether they are clean and smooth or dark with hair.

He licks water from his mouth and thinks about lips, tongues, Bucky’s, though it makes him squirm with feelings that are too new. Vita-Rays spring to mind again, searing him from the inside out, making him new, bringing to light aspects of himself he hadn’t known.

He grunts and doesn’t hide it. His fingers find his balls again, tug harder, a shock to the system that only makes him grunt louder. His fist tightens around his dick. He pulls and swears quietly at how good it is. It’s all a blur behind his eyes now but he doesn’t care, the images make him ache, the pinup’s breasts in his hands, Peggy’s legs wrapped around him, Bucky’s mouth under his. Water makes it all slick, makes it easy.

Leaning in makes the water soak into his hair then stream down his face. He closes his eyes and opens his mouth and swears at every squeeze of his fist and every dirty thought, new and old. The guy next to him is just as fast, groaning in regular rhythm, breathing hard. He’s panting.

Steve was wrong. He can still blush. Because the anonymous soldier is mumbling, biting back words, and Steve knows his name, or Cap’s name, when he hears it.

It’s beautiful, he thinks, beautiful to be wanted even quietly. His guilt is faint and barely there, doomed to death in the face of something like that. It feels like an offering, a secret, like racing Bucky to finish as kids, only without the breathless pain of asthma. When he can’t breathe now it’s because of the ache in his chest and the growing heat inside him and he wants… he wants… more. Just a little more.

Red nails and welcoming mouths and that, his name, said with longing.

He pulls his bottom lip into his mouth but he’s not going to stop now. He asks, “Yeah, soldier?” in a whisper, with his mouth full of warm water, and the short, grateful cry next to him makes him twist and grab at the plank of wood that he wishes really were a wall. It keeps him on his feet as he jerks himself, quick, needing it, needing to finish now, while he’s still hot and shocked and bursting with it.

He spills into his hand a moment later, quiet, though not so quiet that anyone else listening can’t hear. It seems fair, somehow, like a thanks that he isn’t sure he could say out loud right now.

He ought to reach for the soap, but he stays where he is, only opening his hand so the water can wash it clean. He’s colder than he was before, and he shivers once when the guy next to him turns the water off and ducks out without a word.

Steve doesn’t turn to look at him, though he’s tall enough that he wouldn’t have to strain to do it. He glances at the pinup instead, a healthy, smiling fantasy. She’s damp from steam, or maybe other guys have reached out to touch her, forgetting that she’s just paper and the real girl is somewhere far away and thinking of someone else the same as they are. Steve has a strange urge to salute her, so he does, feeling awkward like he did in his new body those first few days, skin stretched too tight, his mind jittery with mixed emotions. But there is water and soap and a job to be done, so he shoves the thoughts away like he did then and focuses on getting clean.

The dishy brunette only smiles back at him, knowing what he’s been up to and daring him to do it again.


End file.
